


Incandescent

by perihadion



Series: Chiaroscuro [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, F/M, Post-Canon, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 18:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14960229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perihadion/pseuds/perihadion
Summary: Gaby knows that if she and Illya ever see each other again, they will have to kill each other.





	Incandescent

_figured in the midnight sky,_  
_a mosaic of stars  
_ _diagrams the falling years_

Sylvia Plath, “To a Jilted Lover”

*

It had been two years since Gaby had seen Illya. Two years.

Waverly had been genuinely regretful when U.N.C.L.E. had fallen apart. Solo, she could tell, was as devastated as she was — but it was not the same. It was comforting to be on the same side as him: there was some posturing between the CIA and MI6 but there were also opportunities to work together, still, and then it was almost like old times — with one notable exception.

As for she and Illya, well. They had always known their affair couldn’t last for ever. It was dangerous even when they were both contracted with U.N.C.L.E.; now it was impossible. If they ran into each other in the field, they would probably have to kill each other. The thing which hurt was that their goodbye had by necessity been muted, taking place, as it did, in front of Waverly and Solo. Why are we kidding ourselves? she had wondered. Everyone knows we’re fucking. But everyone politely bought into the fiction that they weren’t — because if anyone had acknowledged that they were there would have been _consequences_. She knew that the only reason they had been allowed this indiscretion was because they were trusted to break it off cleanly when the time came. No loose ends. This business was so fucking cold.

She couldn’t even kiss him, could barely touch him. They had hugged stiffly, spoken a few words, and looked into each other’s eyes for just a moment too long. It wasn’t enough. It was too much.

“Well then, chaps,” Waverly had said cheerfully. “If I may offer one final piece of advice before we all flit back to our home agencies?”

The three of them had looked forlornly at him and he smiled just a little too brightly. “Try to steer clear of each other.”

That all felt like a lifetime ago. Solo would be approaching the end of his contract with the CIA but she suspected that he might choose to stay with them. Really, what else could he do? What else was he cut out for? As for her, what else could _she_ do?

Two years, one month, three days.

Two years, one month, three days — and here he was in her London apartment. Illya. She had felt his presence as soon as she walked in and, for a moment, thought that she was being robbed. But then she saw his silhouette and she knew in that moment that she was going to die.

Okay, then. She grabbed the coat stand by the door and pulled it over as he lunged at her. He tripped over it and she stumbled into the kitchen, grabbing at a knife on the counter with her left hand as he recovered. But he was so much taller than her — and he had the reach to grab her by the hip. He gripped her painfully hard, pulling her into him and grabbing her left wrist with the other hand. Her heart was pounding. One hand was around her waist, the other holding her raised arm. A waltz. She stared defiantly up into his face. And she realised she wasn’t going to die. He hadn’t come to kill her.

Or, if he had, he wouldn’t.

He was looking at her tenderly, as if they were still holed up in a safe house together, pretending to be a normal couple. He still loved her. He still needed her. She melted into him, and then his mouth was on hers, rough and demanding. The knife on the floor, both of his hands in her hair. His kisses were so hard she thought they might bruise. He kissed her along her jaw and down her neck and picked her up roughly, urgently. She tore at his top, scratching a little too hard down his back, not knowing if she was expressing love or hate — or both. She ran her fingers through his hair and pulled it hard.

God, she still loved him. She still needed him.

He was already hard and she was ready. They fucked desperately, messily, against the wall of her kitchen and she bit down hard into his shoulder, digging her fingernails in so deep she thought she might draw blood, and he would deserve it. And afterwards she found herself unable to stop crying as he carried her to bed, shuddering a little, so that she couldn’t be sure he wasn’t crying too.

*

They made love again that night, slow and sweet — and this time he whispered strange things into her ear as he pressed gentle kisses to her jaw; things which should have been reassuring, but which could only be a fiction: “It is going to be okay. We are going to be okay.” The truth was that neither one of them would be ‘okay’, ever, but it was impossible to live with in that moment. She would live in the fiction with him instead. “Yes,” she whispered, as she arched into him: “everything will be okay.”

He was gone that morning, as she knew he would be. She was the shore: bare again, now: the ocean had fallen back — pulling with it the beautiful weightlessness she had felt for those few hours that they had been together. She was empty now; hollowed out. Curiously heavy. There was almost nothing she would not have given to see Illya’s face in the daytime again, golden, haloed by the sun. Nothing, really. She would have given her life.

She lay in the bed for almost an hour. It was harder to construct the fiction without him physically there, but still she could believe that he was in the kitchen, making breakfast for her. She pulled the cover over herself, allowing herself to feel, just for a moment, the dull aching void inside her chest. She felt sick. She felt sick to her bones.

God, fuck him for coming back just to go away again.

She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t crying. She punched the pillow a few times.

It wasn’t his fault. That was the worst part. But she wasn’t thinking about this again. It was too confusing. If she thought about the fact that the problem was the fucking wall, and the Soviet Union, and the United States, and men in government swinging their dicks with no regard for the effect it had on people just trying to live their lives she would have to start questioning whether they would even have fallen in love if circumstances were different. Could they have fallen in love if it hadn’t been illicit, dangerous from the beginning? Wasn’t this the only type of relationship that made sense for either of them? What would they do if the wall fell, and obstacles were clear? The idea of them building a life together was absurd.

Wasn’t it?

It didn’t matter. She had chosen to carefully pack that whole line of questioning away. It would never bear fruit, however much she tortured herself — and she considered herself above torture.

It was time to get up and confront the reality that he had left. She had spent too many years hardening herself to spend more than an hour marinating in this.

*

It was three days before she found the note. He had hidden it well, between the pages of her copy of _Catch-22_. Still, it was dangerous. Reckless. Her heart had almost stopped when it fell out. Flashpaper. A seemingly-random string of typed numbers. Clearly it was encrypted but he must expect her to have the key — or to be able to obtain it.

She turned it over and over, inspecting the paper, the lettering — with her eyes, running her hands over it, looking through a magnifying glass. There was no clue even to the type of cipher, let alone the key. After several glasses of vodka she placed it in an ashtray and lit a match, staring at it through the flame. Why torture me like this, Illya? The fire flickered hypnotically; she felt that specific type of thirst associated with drinking too much liquor too quickly. If she set fire to this note, she thought, she set fire to him. He would go up in flames and burn without leaving a trace. The whole sordid affair would be over. She would be free. A phoenix. Incandescent. Golden. Shimmering.

The match burnt her fingers and she dropped it on the floor.

I’m above torture, she thought, but he is KGB. They know no other way of doing things.

She stared at the note, then frowned and rubbed her forehead with her hands. Was she that stupid? Was he that reckless? She looked at the bookshelf, with the copy of _Catch-22_ lying flat on its side. A book cipher? How? What page? What line?

… Could he know? Could he know that she would consider throwing the note away?

She grabbed the book.

_‘Why don’t you ask me to let you write my name and address on a piece of paper so that you will be able to find me again when you come to Rome?’ she suggested._

_‘Why don’t you let me write your name and address down on a piece of paper?’ he agreed._

_…_

_The minute she was gone, Yossarian tore the slip of paper up and walked away._

So, that’s how well you know me, she thought. You bastard. He must have been in her flat before the other night. Everything was planned, everything was prepared — except, maybe, running into her there. And, really, it was a perfect cipher. Only she could decode it. Only she could decode him.

It was late. She was starting to feel exhausted, the letters of the book swimming before her. But now that she could know she found she needed to know. She needed to know now. She knew the page, she had an idea of which line. She downed a glass of water and sat down to decode the short message.

*

“I am leaving KGB.”

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything creatively for years, probably, but I watched this movie for the first time a few weeks ago and it really pushed my buttons — and I love a doomed romance.


End file.
